


The Adventures of an American Werewolf and a Irish Immigrant in London

by AjBliss Productions (Ajluv)



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 02:11:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3552140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ajluv/pseuds/AjBliss%20Productions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London, the city worn down with the weight of centuries was never more romantic as during the Industrial Revolution, when a young Irish immigrant met a dashing young sharpshooter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventures of an American Werewolf and a Irish Immigrant in London

**Author's Note:**

> Set during episodes 7 and 8
> 
>  
> 
> This story is co- written through two authors.

    "Sorry again." Brona whispered in a hoarse theatrical whisper from her spot on her bed, wrapped up in what seemed like every blanket available in London.

     Ethan waved off her apologies and brought her a cup of tea, haggled quickly from one of the vendors that constantly prowled the city streets. It was a bit weak, but only because strong tea provoked Brona's coughing fits and coughing fits were certainly, not good.

     The plan had been to do something or other, maybe see another play or take in a simple lunch or perhaps take a stroll at the waterfront or in the park. London was a busy city, full of hundreds of things to see, do and experience. It was also the industrial capital of the world, factories pumping out smoke and evil black discharge into the air and into the lungs of city dwellers everywhere. A common inconvenience for the modern citizen, a danger for a fragile doll like Brona, though Heaven forbid she find out that he called her that.

     And anyway, there was nothing wrong in taking it slow for a while. He had settled Brona on her small, rickety bed and then using his much larger funds had procured coal, tea and some sweets, which he had brought back to her eagerly, much to her delight. There were few books stacked on the dresser. Left in a dingy alleyway, Brona explained. She never read them, but with the simple pride in having such knowledge in her presence, she had kept them and cleaned them, displaying them proudly.

     The published word had much more value to her then the yellow newspapers she had tacked up on the walls to keep out the wind. Ethan was educated and he read to her, the small immigrant curled up next to him as they reclined on the bed, a plate of bright boiled candies at close hand, warm tea clutched in thin, cold fingers and the strength and beauty of a poets word to entertain in the quiet afternoon of the phenomenon known as relaxation. A time where chatter wasn't necessary, only the comfort of being with someone you loved. In a time of growing complexity, simplicity had never tasted so sweet.

 

* * *

    On the bureau there is a clock. An ordinary clock, with bronze gears and a cracked yellow face and tediously ticking fingers. An old clock with it's peeling stamp dating back before Brona or Ethan was born. A foreign clock, one of the few relics brought by Brona from Ireland, it's maker long dead from the famine.  
  
    You could say that the clock was a reference point from which the rest of the small flat and the rest of the building and eventually the great wide world swirled around. The world was a symphony and the clock was the mechanical conductor, ticking away a beat.  
  
    The same could be said for any clock. We are slaves to time, driven by some primitive need to know exactly where we stand in this world and how it apples to our lives like some theoretical twitch. It's a flaw, a tiny scratch in the face of humanity, this compulsive desire for knowing ones place.  
  
    Ethan did not consider himself part of humanity, needless to say, but that flaw was grabbing and twisting, affecting somewhere deep down in his genes, a massive problem at the sub atomic level.  
  
    That clock. That horrible clock.  
  
    For Ethan, the clock was not metaphorical or theoretical or representing some sort of universal symphony, but rather the devil standing on squat wooden legs, the cheap metal screws slowly disintegrating in the abyss where all lost things go.  
  
    Not that Brona was a cheap metal screw. She was the sun itself with existence swirling around her, holding a special place for this small immigrant with the wild hair all while the clock upon the bureau ticked away her time.  
  
    The flat was completely silent which made it worse. He could here every tick of time, every quiet murmur from the doctor, every rasping breath signifying that Brona was still alive.  
  
    "I need more linen." The doctor was quiet and still, the heavy silence affecting him as well.  
  
    "Down the hall." He answered loudly, almost defiantly and the doctor made his way into the shadows.  
  
     Almost immediately Ethan was up, tiptoeing as gracefully as possible through the squeaky wooden door left ajar.The doctor was needy. Linens, pillows, soon he would probably need water. Forget him. Ethan was running on valuable time, time much too precious to waste.The tiny room was weighed down by the stench of illness, hanging like a cloud in the dank air. The windows were ash caked and would be more harm then help if opened.  
  
    Then there was Brona, a tiny wasted form buried beneath old quilts, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from scooping her up into arms and running away. Far away. Where there was no polluted air and the town was tiny and a band of gap toothed school children could perform plays with werewolves and immigrants and fantastical journeys in London which would seem so far away.He lowered himself onto the bed with caution, trying to avoid the squalor that usually came with moving onto this bed.Then there was Brona. So close and so far, her ashy skin flaming, her lips parted for the tiniest gasps of air, her hair pillowed around her head, sticking to her cheek.  
  
    He brushed the wild curls off her forehead for her, sighing at the high temperature, then he carefully adjusted his arms until she was encircled in them, her head resting on his shoulder, her breath tickling his neck.Now was not the time to break down. Now was the time to make a memorable moment to get him through the tough times ahead.  
  
    "Brona." He whispered into the infected air, letting the gorgeous name hang there in the air. What to say? What could he say?  
  
    "Ethan." Came the croak from cracked lips, Brona's eyes not yet moving, but she had relaxed in Ethan's arms, dozing peacefully for once.  
  
    "Lost for words? Now is not time to be vain." She laughed, the horrid crackling sound as quiet as ever.  
  
    "You are always beautiful." Ethan told her, a fierce sort of tone.  
  
    "Always." It's a question or at least sounds like one.  
  
    "Always."  
  
     The doctor is coming back and he needs to go back to his spot on the chair but this is now, Brona is in his arms right now and this will never happen again, this wonderfully imperfect perfection and that godamned awful clock is ticking away each second too fast.  
  
    "I hate time." He growls, holding her so tight, ignoring the burn of her feverish skin.  
  
    "Mmm."  
  
     She's too out of it to care. He realizes with a pang. The moment has been lost, gone before it ever started.  
  
     Later covered in blood he remembers that it was that moment in which the tears started.


End file.
